Breakfast At Tiffany's
by groovystars
Summary: Clint Barton, struggling writer. Natasha Romanova, sexy and sophisticated socialite. One thing they have in common? Tiffany's.


**because why not? italics is what Clint writes (names are different as well- Natasha=Natalie, Clint=Donald as in donald blake), un-italiced is reality (or the truth).**

**disclaimer: nothing is owned. certainly not the avengers and breakfast at tiffany's, or tiffany's itself.**

* * *

_Breakfast at Tiffany's_

_Once, there was a very lonely girl, with only a nameless cat for company. __And her story starts in the big city._

_It's a beautiful morning in New York. Sunlight shines softly through the shadowed trees. The sky is a pale baby-blue. Flags wave softly in the slight breeze. Large, impressive marble buildings guard the small sliver of the road, just about allowing two or three cars to whizz on by, passing the dimly lit lamps which still haven't been turned off from last night, and there is hardly anybody walking around the deserted city._

_A yellow cab- dirty and grimy, but driving along triumphantly in the only way a proper New York cab could do. You could sense the glee of the driver who truly loves his job oozing through the tyres. It slows down, pulling over outside the grandest, largest, most well-lit building in the street. The door opens. A brief exchange between driver and passenger. The taxi light switches off (after all, the driver has been working the whole night). You can just see a shock of red hair, twirled upwards in an elaborate hairdo. Diamonds are placed in the hair in cunning places, catching the sunlight and reflecting off. Your eyes trail down the body. Curvy, sophisticated, the lady had draped herself in an extravagant black dress, long, sweeping the floor without touching it. Her back is exposed, but covered by pearls and a thin band of black material, connecting the dress to the neckline. The dress is sleeveless, revealing long, creamy arms covered by gloves in the exact same shade of black. She clutches a white shopping bag, small and compact. She needs, at that moment, to see the windows of the building._

_That building is Tiffany's and Co., the infamous jewellery store, breaking many girls hearts over a diamond necklace and breaking many guy's bank accounts._

_The oh-so very well dressed girl turns. You see that she has a pair of sunglasses perched on her well-shaped nose. Her lips is full. Her face is proportioned gorgeously. Eyebrows are plucked. All you want to see are her eyes._

_She saunters over to the windows, peering through them. The corners of her mouth twitch, as if to begin to imitate a smile, but they fade as she looks at her reflection. Carefully, she opens the bag and her eyes are still fixated on that jade and ivory necklace displayed in the window. She pulls out a freshly baked croissant (or as freshly baked as you can get in New York) and a large cup of coffee. As she eats the croissant, she dips it in the piping hot drink._

_After a particularly long sip, she walks away from Tiffany's back to her small apartment without looking back._

* * *

Natasha Romanova ran across the street, carefully avoiding the car and the sleeping inhabitant. She had partied with him last night, pocketing his wallet after he gave her money for the powder room. Luckily, she wasn't hungover (watering down her shots of crappy vodka) and he was. Unfortunately, it was New York, and a car almost ran her over, honking its loud horn.

'Darn,' Natasha grumbled and she ran even faster, holding up a hand of apology to the driver. When she finally got to the top of the stairs of her building, she turned quickly to face...Logan? Was that his name?

'Hey! Hey, baby!' Logan yelled, jabbing his finger at her. He was still dressed very well, in his crumpled tux and red rose in his bowtie.

'Oh, hey.' Natasha said dismissively, taking off her sunglasses and placing them on the top of her head. After she rifled in her bag and not finding her keys, she pushed the button that lead to Mr Fury's apartment. After a few agonising seconds- Logan getting closer and closer-, Mr Fury buzzed her in and she threw open the door, yelling a 'Thanks, Mr Fury!' to the general direction of his place. Logan rushed up and managed to catch the door which was a few inches away from closing. The next thing Natasha knew, she was trapped in an enclosed space with a guy she didn't even know.

'What happened to ya, baby? You take off to the powder room, and I never see you again! What happened?' Logan slurred.

'Listen, Logan-'

'My name is Happy. You know, Happy Hogan. Logan was the other guy, with eyes like a wolf. Anyway, you like me, remember?'

'Oh, Happy, darling.' Natasha said, looking at whoever this guy was right in the eye. 'I don't remember you, now will you please leave me alone or I'll have Mr Fury call the police for me- I'm afraid I've lost my telephone.' She turned back around and checked her pigeonhole, putting some perfume and lipstick in there and taking out her keys.

'But baby!' Happy exclaimed. 'You like me! Everyone likes me! I mean, I paid for dinner with you and four other friends, all of them I've never even met before! I gave you $50 to go to the powder room, much more than needed, and that means I oughta have rights!'

'Happy, please go!'

'But you like me!'

'Yes,' Natasha lied, turning around once more to glare at him. 'I adore you, I worship the ground you walk on, but I think you should go now. People will get wrong ideas about us.'

She opened the door with great difficulty, since Happy was blocking the way, and pushed him out, shutting the door in his face and let out a sigh of relief.

The door leading to the apartments was unlocked, which was good because she had lost the keys to that particular door, and she raced up the stairs to get back to her bed and sleep.

* * *

Clint grimaced as he stepped out of the cab, unloading his luggage with him. The driver drove off without so much of a goodbye, and Clint turned to face the future place of accommodation. Sighing, he clutched the handles of the three bags containing everything he owned (luckily, he didn't a lot of stuff and Bobbi was coming over with more stuff) and stumbled over to the bright red door, which was handily unlocked. There was another door in the well-lit lobby and he jammed his keys in, growling as that one didn't seem to be unlocking. After a while, he gave up and pressed the first button he saw- a buzzer for a Miss Natasha Romanova.

He kept pressing. And pressing. And pressing.

The door finally opened, and he paused to look at the number Miss Romanova lived at- 13- to thank her for letting him in. He could only walk up each stair slowly. Finally, he got to door 13 and knocked.

'Wait a second,' came a husky voice and Clint's eyes widened. It wasn't like what he was expecting- a high, feminine voice with a Russian accent sprang to mind. 'I need to get dressed.'

And good golly, Clint really had to think hard about his fat publishing editor.

'Alright,' said the voice again, and the door opened slightly. The chain of the lock hung in a gentle curve and the woman was in the shadows, but then the door was unlocked and the door was open and-

Oh good heavens, Clint was in trouble. He always did have a thing for redheads.

The first thing he noticed was that precise shade of her eyes. It was straddling that fine line between jade green and hazel and framed with long eyelashes. The next thing he saw was her mouth and oh man, did he want to kiss it.

'Yes?' she said, pulling fancy earplugs out of her ears.

'Clint,' Clint said confidently, 'Clint Barton. I'm sorry about waking you.' His eyes flicked down to see that she was dressed in only a long white blouse that wasn't buttoned at the back, and a long black skirt underneath. 'It's just that I'm a new neighbour, and I think they sent me the wrong key.'

'The wrong key?'

'Yeah, the upstairs one instead of the downstairs.'

'But wouldn't you need both?' she queried. 'I should know, since I keep losing my downstairs key.'

'Well, yeah, okay, they only sent me one key.' Clint amended, smiling. 'Again, I'm really sorry about waking you.'

'It's alright,' the woman said. 'Could happen to anyone and quite frequently does.'

'Can I ask you another favour?' Clint asked, hating himself more and more for using up this woman's time. 'Can I use your phone?'

The woman nodded. 'Go ahead. It's in the suitcase.'

'The suitcase?'

'Muffles the sound. Wouldn't stop ringing and ringing. Honestly.' the woman replied. She stepped aside and beckoned for him to come in. Clint stepped inside and gazed at the almost empty apartment.

'Nice place you got.' Clint said unconvincingly.

'Oh, don't lie,' she said. 'Watch out,' she added as she stalked off to a different room, the back of her blouse still hanging open. Clint frowned, and a blurry object leaped onto his head, obscuring his vision.

'Mmmargh.' Clint exclaimed. His hands flew up to catch whatever was on his head and he quickly realised that it was a small black cat.

'Did Cat get you?' she asked. The woman had buttoned up her blouse now, and putting pins into her hair.

'Uh, yeah.' Clint answered. 'May I ask what your name is?'

'Don't be so formal,' the woman replied. 'And my name is Natasha.'

Natasha sauntered away again, and as she went she raised her hands for the cat to jump into.

'And does the cat have a name?' Clint asked.

'Oh no, poor slobby cat. Cat without a name.'

Clint began walking to the shabby suitcase. 'Any reason why no name?'

Natasha walked to her small kitchen with Cat on her shoulders, pulling out a champagne glass with milk in. 'I just don't have the right to name him, since people don't belong to people, cats don't belong to people or cats and dogs prefer to belong. The cat and I have an outstanding lunch date. And, because you're going to ask about the lack of furniture, it's because I don't want to own anything until I find a place which works with me, instead of fighting. I don't know where it is or who with, but it feels like Tiffany's.'

Clint rolled his eyes, and stopped dialling. 'Tiffany's? The jewellery store?'

'Yes, the jewellery store. Cures all known mean reds.'

'Mean reds?'

'Yes, sorry, the mean reds.'

'Is it like the blues?'

'Not at all. The blues are when you feel fat, or when a relationship ends, or when a relation dies. The mean reds are violent, they turn your world upside down and the feeling just swallows you up. Sorry, I've been rambling. Call your friend.'

He raised an eyebrow and resumed dialling, punching in the familiar numbers of Barbra- or Bobbi, as she preferred to be known- Morse's phone number. She didn't pick up.

Clint sighed and hung up, huffing. Bobbi and Clint were just friends with benefits, and he pretended to not know of Bobbi's husband (who had never been mentioned). 'Idiot.'

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. 'Who- you or the woman?'

'Me. Barbra- sorry, Bobbi's on a flight back from Rome. 10 o'clock, Thursday morning, right? Moving always disorientates me.'

'Yes, it's 10 o'clock on Thursday if that's what you're thinking.' Natasha said, smiling, then the bright smile flew off her face. 'Oh, shoot.'

Natasha ran off towards her bedroom and shouted, 'Will you help me or are you too busy?'

Clint smiled, and answered with a quick 'yes, my schedule just opened up in fact'.

'Well, Clint,' Natasha said with an unimitable smile, 'will you help me find my shoes? Alligator, and under the bed, I think.' She rushed to her small, plain wooden table with neatly arranged cans- much less then what Clint usually saw on a woman's make-up table, especially compared to Bobbi. Natasha had two, three cans of water to spray on her face, some lipstick in colour order and one little box of foundation. Clint always joked that if make-up tables were mazes, Barbra's would be the Labyrinth.

'Sure,' he said and walked towards the bed, looking underneath curiously. 'You in a hurry?'

'Yep.' Natasha said curtly, popping on some deep red lipstick. She threw open her armoire, glanced and picked out some clothes, grabbed a hat and ran to the bathroom, clicking the door shut. 'Need to catch the 10:45 train, because they are so particular about visiting hours.'

'Where are you going?'

'Sing Sing prison. I know, I know. Don't judge me.'

'I won't,' Clint promised, 'but I don't like the name. 'Sing Sing sounds like an opera house, not a jail.'

'People dress like they're going to the opera though,' Natasha said, her voice amplified in the bathroom. 'The women dress in black, with pearls around the neck. Little children with shined shoes and ribbons in their hair, like there's ice cream. The guys wear sharp suits, crisp and the ties freshly pressed.'

'And you?

'The same. Don't want to stand out.'

There was a faint clipping sound, a rustle of silk over skin and the door creaked open.

'How do I look?'

Natasha looked gorgeous. The black dress was elegantly wrapped around her, the creamy pearls setting off her skin. Her hair was pinned up and covered by a large hat that slanted over her face.

'Nice.' Clint said, blinking. 'Really, really nice.'

Natasha beamed and asked, 'Have you found my shoe?' Clint showed her the one shoe she had found. Natasha frowned, and ran over to the bouquet of flowers next to her bed. She pulled out the other shoe and waved it triumphantly, before slipping them on her feet.

'Alright, I need to go. See you soon, Clint.' Natasha said quickly, grabbing her bag.

'Oh no, I'm coming too. I think my friend's coming over.' Clint remembered and then chased after her down the street, grabbing his bags on the way.

The sun was shining bright in his eyes. He stepped out of the door and pulled on the sunglasses that were perched on top of his head and frowned, eyes locking onto Natasha's petite frame.

'Let me call you a cab.' Clint said loudly, and waving his hand frantically.

'Clint, you don't have to do that.' Natasha said, looking out to the road.

'No, no, I'm a New Yorker now, I have to do this.' Clint kept trying to call a cab, yelling 'TAXI' and jumping up and down.

'Clint, you're still a tourist.' Natasha informed him with a sly smirk and whistled loudly. A yellow cab came immediately.

'Teach me.'

'Later.'

Another cab came up behind Natasha's, and the door opened. A long, willowy blonde came out, all sharp angles and busty chest, and threw her arms around Clint. Natasha couldn't help comparing herself to the blonde. Her hair was long, curly and red, she was curvy and shorter than Clint. The blonde was almost taller than him, with platinum blonde straight, shoulder-length hair. This blonde was everything a man would want, and Natasha quickly decided this was the girl Clint tried to call, Bobbi. Her suspicions were confirmed.

'I tried calling you, but you never answered.' Bobbi muttered, and quickly ended the hug when she saw Natasha's bemused face. 'Hello.'

'привет,' Natasha answered. She widened her eyes innocently.

'Excuse me?'

'I am sorry, my English is very poor.' Natasha replied sadly, with a strong Russian accent. 'I come from Moscow. You must be Barbra.'

'Bobbi,' Bobbi replied. Her voice was lightly accented with a Boston feel. 'Do you two live in the same building?'

'Yes,' Natasha said shortly.

'Natasha's going to Sing Sing.' Clint chipped in, 'and she's got to catch the 10:45 so she really must hurry.'

'Right, yes, of course.' Natasha said and hopped in the car. 'Dosvedanya tovarisch!'

The cab whizzed off and Bobbi smiled as Clint stared at her. 'Miss me?'

'Just a little.'

'Well, you won't after you see what I've done with your pad. I've decorated it already, but if you don't like it we'll start again.'

Bobbi took Clint's hand and led him to the door, rushing since the sky was turning darker.

* * *

'Baby, baby, man, baby whatcha doin'? You're ruinin' an amazin' party, baby. Open the door, be a pal. Aw baby.'

Natasha rolled her eyes as the man- was this one Logan, or was it Scott?- pounded on her door. 'You remember me? Remy LeBeau. Baby, I stole $100 for you. I think-'

'That was stolen?' Natasha said quietly, opening the door and glaring at him. 'Mr Remy LeBeau, I must insist that you leave me alone. If you think that stealing money is helpful...pshaw.' She made a hacking noise, and rolled her eyes. She remembered this guy now. 'World class thief,' he called himself. Yet he couldn't get rid of that rogue woman.

'Go back to Anna-Marie, Mr LeBeau.' she then said, before closing the door.

'Baby! Baby!'

Natasha rolled her eyes and stalked over to the window, climbing out of it. She didn't do this often, but the party was terrible, the men there were pigs and she thought she saw a glimpse of Bruce. But it was impossible. After all, Bruce...

No, he was in the past. Natasha prided herself on being a creature of the present. No use dwelling on the past.

Climbling up the fire escape was easy, it was sliding into Clint's room that was hard. She was just about to slide in, but then she saw a sharp, angular figure and froze. _Stupid, _Natasha thought. You could hear her light footsteps, gliding across that wooden floor. _Stupid._

Natasha froze, watching Bobbi count up fifty- she always prided herself on her attention to detail- dollars, and frowned as she left them on Clint's bedside table, saying goodbye with a kiss.

'Americans,' she said with a slight smirk, 'always so generous.'

She climbed through the window effortlessly, walked (silently, of course) towards Clint's bed and stopped; dare she? Of course- she's Natalia Romanova, Russian femme fatale.

Natasha leant over and shook Clint awake.

'Blarhg,' he said.

'Eloquent.' Natasha noted, before sitting on his bed. Soft, springy, so very lovely to sleep in. (Just like Clint, her mind said, but she smacked that thought down. For now.) 'I'm sorry for disturbing you, though.'

'S'alright,' he replied. 'Just...thought you were Bobbi.'

Natasha stared at Clint, pursing her lips. 'She's generous.'

'Don't even start.'

She nodded, accepting his boundaries, and said:

'You do remember me, right?'

'Natasha, from downstairs, this morning. You helped me get dressed.'

'Yes, that's me. Well, do you mind if I stay up here for a while? There's a drunk beast downstairs, lapping at vino and hammering on my door.'

'Want me to get rid of him?'

'Don't you think I could've done that myself? I'd rather just wait up here until he goes back to his little Southern sweetheart.'

Clint smiled, and asked 'How was Sing Sing?'

'Normal. Mr Laufeyson is a di-'

'Laufeyson? As in, Loki Laufeyson? Famous head of the Mafia?'

'As I was going to say- he's an idiot. Not an idiot, he's almost as good at poker as me, but...cruel. Nice enough.'

'And?'

'I gave him the weather report- it's what I have to do every time I see him. I get the weather report from Erik Selvig, his lawyer.'

'Opinion?'

He either drinks too much, or he's not all there.'

Clint nodded, understanding what she meant. His dad was like that, before he drank himself to death and bringing his mother with him. Natasha shifted, then stood up and drifted over to the writing table.

'You know,' Natasha said. 'I have a brother- not my real brother, but almost. His hair's blond, you see. His name's Steve. Steve Rodgers. He looks like you. I might call you that on accident, but don't be offended. He's a really nice guy.'

'That's alright.' Clint nodded. 'So, we should get to know each other better.'

'Really?' Natasha asked, perching upon the edge of his table. 'Is that a good idea?'

'We're at that stage- we've passed it whilst singing songs and waving goodbye. I mean, you've dressed in front of me and broke into my home and I'm currently-' he peeked underneath his sheet- 'almost naked.'

Natasha raised an eyebrow, briefly smiled and gestured for him to start.

'What do I talk about?'

'Introduce yourself and your family.' Natasha suggested. Clint chuckled darkly.

'I'm Clint Barton, my brother, mother and father are dead, my other brother, Tony, is currently a millionaire in California and I'm a sort-of writer.'

'A sort of writer? How intriguing. How can you be a sort-of writer?'

Clint laughed, before explaining the story of his book- Nine Lives, the story of a dying man who lives through nine accidents only to die when he catches a cold, and how it became a hit and now he had a permanent case of writer's block, with capital letters. He grabbed a bottle of beer and handed it to Natasha, before taking one for himself.

Natasha nodded her thanks, then said:

'You don't write everyday.'

'No,' Clint affirmed.

'There's no ribbon in your type-writer.'

They sat in silence, staring at the object on the table.

'You know, you don't really look like my brother.' Natasha said quietly. 'You have the same sort of hair colour, and I think your eyes are the same, but he's more quiet and smooth around the edges and you're more rugged and torn.'

'Tell me more about him.' Clint said. 'I mean, I gotta decide if it's an honour to be compared to your brother, Miss Romanova.'

Natasha chuckled, and it was a dark, throaty one that sent pleasant chills down his spine. 'Haven't seen him since I was 16, and it's been about ten years. We've kept in contact though, letters and postcards. He's the nicest guy you'll meet, and sweet. A bit old-fashioned for his age- only twenty and six now I suppose. He's in the army, but he's always wanted to be an artist. God, the things he can draw. It's amazing. He's amazing.'

'The army?'

'Youngest captain in the army so far. They even nicknamed him Captain America.'

Clint grinned as he untwisted the cap off his beer bottle and drank, swallowing exaggeratedly. Natasha's eyes were fixated on this typewriter, and she turned to gaze at Clint. It was as if she was staring into his soul, and if it felt like that, Clint thought she could do it every day.

'When was the last time you wrote something?' she asked suddenly. It was the question everyone tried to step around. His agent, Maria Hill, was like that too though- straight to the point, hard and fast. That reminded him- he needed to pay her.

'Around 1956, I suppose. That was when I finished writing Nine Lives.'

'That's a long time.'

'Practise makes perfect.'

'You've been practising writing your book.'

'Yeah, in my mind.'

Natasha smiled faintly at his joke and her hands started playing with her empty bottle. She didn't look away, but licked the rim of the bottle in order to try to catch any stray droplets- there were none.

'Can I ask you a question?' she said.

'If I get to ask you one in return, yeah, shoot.'

'Why fool around with a married woman?'

Clint blinked. He hadn't told Natasha that Bobbi was married. 'She likes the danger and sex, I like her and sex. My turn.'

'Go ahead.'

'Do they always give you $100 for the powder room?'

'I never told you that.'

'Honey, I could hear Mr Remy LeBeau from upstairs.'

Natasha smirked. 'Usually it's $50. He was generous.'

She finally looked away to stare at Clint's bed- bare, brown and empty. Her mind drifted to Steve.

'You know,' she said, 'you don't really look like him.'

And with that remark, she took her bottle, nodded to Clint and stalked over to the window leading onto the fire escape, lifted it, and gracefully climbed out like the nameless cat she owned- Clint wondered if he had done anything wrong, but Natasha seemed like a flighty person, like a bird trapped in a cage of freedom, or a voiceless person given the option to speak.

He sighed as he began to settle down to sleep.

* * *

_Natalie Rushman, wasn't really that lonely. In fact, a few days later, Donald was invited to her famous house-parties, organised by a friend of hers. Of course, he wasn't planning to go, but swing music and pretty ladies- especially Natalie Rushman- can be persuasive. _

* * *

'Name?' a sharp looking man asked Clint, who was right on time and clutching a book.

'Clint Barton. Yours?'

'Phil Coulson. How do you know Nat?'

'Neighbour. You?'

'Classified information,' Phil Coulson said and looked around, 'but do lighten up. You look like Fury from upstairs is going to come down and stick a beer bottle up your ass. Not gonna happen- not under my wa- hey! Hey, Gwen! Is Peter going to be here?'

'He'll be swinging by later- he said I'm too early.' said a young, pretty blonde who sat down and started reading. Clint squinted to see the title of the book- Biophotonics: Total Diaster or Stark approved?- before giving up. His education didn't stretch that far.

'Okay. Oh, Wanda, no. Your dress is split and fake, a Gucci knockoff,' Coulson said, ignoring Wanda's disgruntled expression. 'Honey, it's my job to separate the liars from the normal guys, do you think I won't tell you about your dress?'

'What do you do?' Clint asked.

'Classified, remember?' Coulson replied, before turning to face Clint in the face. 'You need a drink. What do you want?'

'Is there any scotch?'

'Course there is. You know,'- he leant towards Clint like he was telling him a big secret- 'all Nat used to have- alcohol, I mean- was vodka. Tons of it. All of it top quality and filtered three times. Jeez, it was amazing vodka. She drank it like it was coffee- I said to her, 'doesn't it affect you in any way?' and she says, 'Phil, I'm Russian, I grew up around this shit, now hand me my dress,' and that was the end of that. Never saw the vodka again. Suppose she drank it. I like to think I got rid of it by simply standing nearby.'

'Bet she could drink anyone under the table.'

'Course, if it was fucking vodka you were drinking.'

They had wandered towards the kitchen whilst talking, and Coulson had pulled out all of Natasha's drinks. There wasn't a single bottle of vodka- 'good girl, I was worried she may have bought some more or smuggled it or some shit like that'- but plenty of good scotches.

'On the rocks?'

'No thanks, watered down.'

'But with rocks?'

'Sure, yeah, okay.' To be honest, Clint didn't like parties. Standing around, dancing awkwardly with a girl you want to kiss whilst everyone talks amongst themselves- 'daaarhling, I had a simply diviiinneee time at this restaurant'- and gossips. This party though felt different.

Maybe because Natasha Romanova was hosting the party.

'Phil,' she greeted him with a nod, hardly the two kisses Clint was expecting. 'Is anyone here?'

'Gwen and Wanda, saw Steven and Peter's coming by later. I know Danny and Luke are gonna stop by, but...'

'Thanks. Clint? You came.' she stated it more than questioned, and she glided forward to hug him. Clint noticed the dark green dress and appreciated the feel of satin under his fingertips.

'Brought you a present,' Clint muttered in her hair.

'Shouldn't have,' Natasha replied.

'But I did. Something for the bookcase.'

He lifted his left hand, letting go of her. He nervously gave her Nine Lives. Natasha laughed, taking the worn book with glee, before sauntering over to her bare bookcase and placing it in at the very top, standing on her tip-toes to do it.

'So,' Clint said when Natasha had done, 'who's the suit?'

'Phil? He's my friend. Sort of. More like an agent, I suppose, and a great one. Knows everyone's phone number.'

'Could he be mine?' Clint's last agent dropped him after three years of idleness.

'Your agent? I don't know- lemme ask. Hey, Coulson.' she shouted.

'What?' He shouted back.

'Want to be Clint's agent?'

'Let me talk to him, Natasha!' He turned to face Clint and said, 'That's a yes, by the way. Natasha should give you my number or something, but I'm looking forward to talking to you. What do you do?'

'I'm a writer.'

'Oh god,' Coulson muttered before walking away to open the door. No-one had knocked, but a flood of people entered almost immediately.

Swing music played from Natasha's gramophone, people were socialising and drinking and Natasha was the star, working the crowd effortlessly with grace. She had a crowd of men surrounding her, clamouring to get her a drink, or to offer her a cigarette ('I don't smoke,').

'And let the party begin.' Clint muttered.


End file.
